Petrificus Totallus!
by ArtisticGallifreyan
Summary: John was done with that old life. Once an auror; a warrior on a wizard battlefield, he chose to put that life behind him and move into muggle territory. Life however, doesn't get any easier when strange deaths of a magical nature start cropping up all around London - And John REALLY does not want to be dragged back down that rabbit hole once more.
1. Peeking Back

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**Authors Note: Hope you enjoy!**

_Another year, another awful reminder..._

John hadn't quite kept track as to how long he had been resting in his chair, staring vacantly out the window while Mrs. Hudson frantically tried to clean around him in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn't return from his antics anytime soon. His fingers rested around the handle of his mug and his other hand strummed along the frayed fabric of the couch, and to any observer it was quite obvious that the man had been stuck in a deep train of thought for the past half an hour at least.

_Why can't the year just skip 'today'?_

"Oh Dr. Watson, you don't seem quite yourself today..." A feather duster brushed lightly over the coffee table as the poor woman darted around. Sure, she wasn't the housekeeper, but she sure acted like one. "Is anything the matter?"

It took a few moments until his concentration broke and he glanced upwards at the kindly eyes of the landlady. "Yes, I mean... No, definitely not. Nothing that concerns you anyhow." His free hand found it's way to the back of his head where he began to rub it, as if feeling rather awkward. "Just reflecting on the past few weeks I suppose, with all the bombs and that Moriarty chap who felt the need to strap a bomb to my chest."

"Oh dear, I do recall you and Sherlock found yourself to be in a _spot _of trouble, but my husband-"

_Here we go..._

"He wasn't the greatest man, all his cartels and whatnot, but if he was going to torture someone it was always with a _vest_. I often wondered why but I think it was down to cost-"

"Mrs Hudson?" There was a time and place for chats regarding the Drug Cartels and blackmarket underground operations, and today nor 221B seemed like the place to do it.

Apparently getting the hint, Mrs Hudson raised a finger as if she had struck an idea (highly unlikely), and gave a gentle smile. "I'll go put the kettle on, it's _certainly_ the weather for some tea. You just relax..." And with that, the feather-dusting not-a-housekeeper land-lady tottered off to the kitchen, leaving a rather bemused but slightly irritated John leaning back in his chair, contemplating mixed emotions that were pouring through his mind. And it wasn't as if he could just sit down and discuss them with Sherlock; oh-no. That was entirely out of the question, simply because there were boundaries to where Sherlock pointed his incredibly jutted cheekbones, and John's 'true' past wasn't one of them.

To rewind, John's past hadn't exactly been as uniform as what Sherlock had made it out to be. In fact, while Sherlock had near 99.9% accuracy in deducing John's apparently-broken past, the nature of his deductions were slightly 'off'. For starters, John 'had' been in a war and he 'had' sustained a nearly fatal injury, it just wasn't in Afghanistan and it wasn't in his shoulder, nor had it been a gunshot wound. Today marked the anniversary of the final battle and John had lost many of his friends and family in that battle; Augustus, Baritan, Helmiece, he could go on. The final day of that war had been the ultimate decider on a battlefield that had been spilt with the ashes and blood of those he held most dear, and had been the reason for his simpleton life in the Muggle-realm. Ah, but to clarify. John was not a muggle, nor had the war been of one with simple weapons.

The war had been a magical one, held over the fields and miles that connected Platform 9 and 3/4 to the Hogwarts grounds over the course of 24 hours, and albeit spilling into and around the school. It had involved students, teachers, mothers, fathers, children, auroras and key members of the resistance with a strong understanding of the Dark Arts. All of these individuals had rallied together in one last attempt to force the Dark Lord into a much more permanent state of death; and for the time being they had reigned some success. In this war, John had held a key position in the resistance as a naturally skilful fighter, and his talents had been put to a violent use that day. Many death eaters had died at the end of his wand, yet many innocent children had died before his eyes. Stone cold and lying on the stone at his feet, unable to be helped.

The day of the war had also been the day that John had been struck with a rather aggressive curse, putting him in a state of both physical and emotional pain that had been left lingering for a good six months or so. Adding that to all the trauma he had witnessed, his resignation from the resistance and his role at the Ministry of Magic had not come a moment sooner, and before he knew it he had settled into a life in London. Magic still coursed through his veins, but he knew the rules and obeyed them wisely. No magic was to be performed on muggles, nor was it appropriate to use it in the muggle-world. It didn't stop him from performing a few tricks for his own personal gain (washing the dishes, or heating up his tea for example), but exercising caution was rather important in his circumstances. Most wizards and witches chose not to defect to the Muggle world, and for good reason. But John had really had enough, and to his shock that had been almost 2 years ago.

Two years to the day, and here he was.

And the thoughts of those children never left his mind.

But alas, he was happy; for the most part. He had some sort of a friend (he had hoped, anyway), and he had been keeping busy. He never _really_ tried to forget about his true nature, but aiding sentiment he still kept his 'possessions' locked safely away in a chest, lodged towards the back of his cupboard. One of those possessions being his Oakwood Elderflower hybrid wand; and there were days when the distance between that stick and John caused his heart to ache, but that was natural. A wizard's wand was almost as important as a limb, so it often pained John to go near his cupboard when he could feel the pull of the wand try to draw him closer. _Just another reminder of a past I promised I wouldn't go back to_... Although he figured that 'natural' pull would eventually weaken, yet he wasn't holding out much hope.

"I wonder where Sherlock is..." John murmured, briefly eyeing the window and entertaining the idea that Sherlock would somehow chose to climb up the building instead of using the door. Yes, it had most definitely been a _boring _day. Although it was highly likely that Sherlock had been pottering around for a case, which was quite possibly related to the body of a rather, err, large woman who had been found absolutely petrified, as white as a ghost and as rigid as a board - Yet appeared as though she had _literally _been caught in the moment and killed while _running_. Of course, there hadn't been a wound, and she hadn't been frozen. She was literally a picture perfect portrait of a woman who had died in a split second, seemingly aware of her fate according to her expression.

And while John tried to avoid the fact that he knew _exactly _what this sounded like, every ounce of his being was screaming '_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS'_.

The spell to petrify a wizard and stop the heart of a muggle.

"Better not be _that_ case..."


	2. Tea Time with Turbulent Memories

_**Author's note: Many thanks for your reviews! Personally, I wasn't expecting it to get such a decent following so quickly! I actually wrote the first chapter as a prompt for Omegle to do a bit of PotterLock roleplaying, however many were either a) scared away from the length, or b) uninterested, so I felt as though it deserved a place on at least! Anyhow, I apologize for the last error in the first chapter where my spellcheck put 'aurorer' instead of 'auror'. Sorry about that. If you do happen to find any errors on here, or have any suggestions please throw your comments my way! All reviews are read and taken into account; and plus, the only way I'm ever really going to learn and improve is via the joys of constructive criticism, so I'm all ears **** (or… eyes xD)**_

_**And I'll try to update when I can. This is more of a hobby than anything else as I trudge through my first 'real' novel (if it 'ever' gets anywhere), we'll see.**_

_**Anyyyyhow, enjoy! From your friendly neighborhood Aussie.**_

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**That case we discussed. Very unusual circumstances. – SH**

**St. Bart's Morgue. ASAP. – SH**

The familiar chime of John's mobile sung out throughout the flat with each consecutive message that graced the screen, leaving John a little at odds with what to do. On one hand, if he chose to respond to Sherlock's summons he would undoubtedly be asked to give a brief onceover on the corpse regarding any professional insight he may have. On the other hand, if he just happened to 'ignore' the persistent cries for attention, his uneventful day may be given permission to continue.

**Come if convenient. – SH**

Now, John wasn't totally averse to helping Sherlock. If anything, that was why he still chose to hang around (and of course, sentiment), but today John had his reasons. And it wasn't just the post-apocalyptic anniversary blues that had him feeling a little bit blue. This 'case' that had sprung up a good week ago had the entire collection of New Scotland Yard absolutely riddled and had Sherlock practically salivating over all the question marks that kept continuously popping up; but John however, had the whole thing sorted the moment he had surveyed the crime scene and laid his eyes on the rather voluptuous corpse who had been sprawled out over the woodwork. In normal circumstances, John would have volunteered up any and all knowledge to have at his friend's disposal, which would have likely led to the case being solved quick smart. Unfortunately though, these _weren't_ exactly normal circumstances and unfortunately spanned outwards from the world of muggles, being of a 'magical' nature.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH**

"John!" A motherly yell echoed from the kitchen. "Your phone seems to be wanting your attention! What's a bet that's Sherlock?" The sounds of cups clanging on trays could be heard from the alcove that made up the quaint little kitchen of 221B, followed by a kettle slowly roaring to a boil. "Probably about that poor lady they found last week. All this murder business, it's dreadful isn't it?" She sighed, not quite aware of the one-sided direction her conversation had taken.

**Your absence is noted, but not warranted. Arrive, preferably now. – SH**

"John? Might be important…" Mrs. Hudson circled around from behind his chair, taking care to lower the tray on the central coffee table (ironically; for tea). As she did so, her eyes quickly scanned over John and it didn't take a detective to tell that he was currently 'spaced out'. "Are you sure you're alright? And I don't mean to nag; you've just looked a bit… Depressed lately, and I worry John. I honestly do." Again, her words of tender concern received nothing but vacancy from the doctor, his eyes practically staring holes into the window starting to be flecked with droplets from a light downpour. This time, she extended a hand out to his shoulder, but was surprisingly deflected from John; now back in the present.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." Poor John, he couldn't be further from the truth. But secrets were of no unfamiliarity to this ex-auror. If anything, he was beyond dumbfounded that Sherlock had never even so much asscraped the surface of John's phenomenal, earth-shattering secret that had the potential to rewrite the concepts of science and technology as humanity knew (although he was entirely thankful that his secret had remained just so), but John likely put down his luck to the simple reason that he had never given in to the constant pull that his wand demanded. Since the day he had resigned from his position as an auror and walked away from a life he never had intentions to go back to, his wand and a few other sentimental magical trinkets locked away in his cupboard had never been given the time or day to see the light.

And it was going to stay that way.

Permanently.

Although; given the nature of this most recent case, he wasn't sure how long 'permanent' would stay that way. Sherlock 'had' to solve a case; there was no ifs or buts about it and despite the fact that there were _some_ cases that Sherlock had left on the backburner (for now) due to lack of evidence or simply due to disinterest, not being able to solve a murder of this nature would absolutely send him scratching up the wall. The worst of that being; any and all frustrations would be taken out on _John_, and until a case of this nature got solved, those infrequent hunts for cigarettes, bullets in the wall and returns back to the float soaked in the blood of an innocent swine would be all _too frequent_. That wasn't to say John was willing to totally go and break the Statute of Secrecy to save his sanity, but he'd have to do 'something' to put Sherlock off the scent.

_He might not ever be 'on' the scent._

Fair point. It wasn't as though Sherlock's inhuman radar for evidence had ever been tuned in to a craft that surpassed all reasonable physics and logic, so why should he be worried? After all, John was fairly confident that there wasn't special vault lodged away in Sherlock's mind palace with 'Magic and things that do not make sense' stamped on the door. _Although_, he mustn't forget that the consulting detective's brain worked like a bloody hard drive, the Internet and the server governing the files of WikiLeaks, all combined. To assume _anything_ at this point (with Sherlock involved) was nothing short of dangerous and reckless. To assume that the witch or wizard responsible had been extremely careful in their kill, completely absent in the presence of any looming CCTV cameras nestled on the edge of rooftops or strapped to the stem of street-poles, was nothing short of crazy. And worse off, making the rash assumption that the secrecy of magic was totally and utterly Sherlock-proof was _insane_.

But what was there to be worried about? Magic didn't leave a burn residue, and it certainly didn't leave an aroma detectable by muggles. If the spell had been strong enough, a wizard or witch _may_ possibly be able to detect a subtle hint of ozone, but that was often minutes after the spell had been cast. And upon initial inspection of the crime scene, John was certain he hadn't picked up anything obvious that would instantly raise alarms among others present. Additionally, the corpse wielded no obvious marks. The only _one_ possible obvious marker that even a muggle could pick up on was visual evidence; evidence that would have been confiscated immediately by the British government (a.k.a. Mycroft) if it ever were to surface amidst thousands of hours worth of footage constantly reeling through the system as a 'counter-terrorism' measure.

And now, quite possibly proving to be a means of capturing a magical murder; potentially revealing the nature of all magical beings and thus exposing them to the muggle world. _However_, there had always been talk within the Ministry regarding the political elite of muggles having a very _minor_ awareness of the magical world, and John had always assumed the 'elite' referred to the UK Prime Minister as the sole individual who had been granted that knowledge, but nobody knew for certain. There were often times where John suspected that Mycroft may 'possibly' have been informed at some point, however even the millions of strings that Mycroft had at his disposal… Even that might not be enough. Not for the 'ice man', anyhow.

**Do I need to call for a police escort? – SH**

"Well, you don't _look_ fine. You look a little lost, actually." John felt his surroundings pull him back to the present (again), and he took note that the landlady had taken advantage of the flat's comforts by perching herself gracefully on the edge of Sherlock's favored chair. "Come on John, talk to me? I know Sherlock can be a bit of a brick wall at times, and I don't blame you for keeping it all in." She smiled sweetly, bringing the fine china to her lips but being ever so reserved as she sipped on the Earl Grey. "After my husband died, I-"

_Oh, here we go._

"Mrs. Hudson." John teetered forward on the edge of his chair and wrapped both hands around each other. "You're right. You're _undeniably _right." His voice wavered a little at the end; his hands nervously departing from their interlocked clasp as he ran both hands exasperatingly down his face. "It's something I can't talk to Sherlock about, the whole 'sentiment' thing, you know…"

"Oh."

"And it's not like I try to make this whole 'pent-up' emotions nonsense a habit." _John, where the heck are you going with this? _"But with what's happened in the past, I suppose it always just seems to catch up with me, I let my worries get out of hand…"

"_Oh_."

John shuffled awkwardly on the edge of his seat. "And I know _I'm_ the one parading around a moral compass of 'sentiment' in this flat and quite possibly the only one with a conscious, but there's only so much you can disclose to Sherlock, and something like… Well, this. I just can't, and… Mrs. Hudson?" John couldn't help but observe the ever-growing grin that was widening on the old woman's face.

"Why are you smiling?"

This beckoned a chuckle in response, the landlady apparently dangerously close to breaking out in a fit of laughter. "Oh _John_." She lightly plopped the cup down on the tray, and brought a hand up to her mouth. "I don't mean to giggle, but if you wanted to tell Sherlock you might as well come out with it. I don't blame you, that man can be a bit blind! Especially in these sorts of _affairs_; the heart can be the most curious thing…"

"Mrs. Hudson!" If he had been drinking tea right now, he likely would have choked on it. "Mrs. Hudson. I- No. No, how many times do I have to tell you, I – No!" He shook his head, his face falling to a frantic 'I've lost this battle' expression. "Please, I am _not_ gay. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but me and Sherlock-"

The poor woman, her little heart was doing its best to keep up with her fit of giggles as she did her best to maintain her composure to _some_ degree, although that battle was soon becoming short lived. "Live and let live, that's what I always say."

"Firstly- No! You're not trapping me in this discussion. Not again." He wildly shook his head, but felt his cheeks redden from becoming a little flustered. "What I _meant_ to say was that this day marks the anniversary regarding the death of a very close friend." He paused, a pallor replacing the flushed redness on his face, all the while noticing that Mrs. Hudson had responded to his emotional confession with a sudden bout of silence. "Actually, a few."

"Oh, _John_." Her voice suddenly sounded a little bit weaker, a bit broken. "If I had any idea I wouldn't have had a laugh. I'm terribly sorry."

John raised his head a little higher, but responded with a weak smile. "It's okay. Honestly, it happened years ago, earlier days in the army." He sighed; his hands finding their way back together and intertwining as he spoke. "But I lost some close friends a few years ago to this day, and I suppose you never quite move on from something like that." It didn't matter that Sherlock had displayed a few minor errors in his deductive prowess as he stripped John's history from a few minor picks of evidence; John had _still_ been in an army. He had still been injured, and he had still lost his closest friends. It didn't matter how wrong Sherlock had been, because no matter which way you looked at it; he was spot-on.

_All right, enough of this. I can spend the day moping, or I can kick Sherlock off the scent. _

**John, it's Molly. Sherlock is complaining and becoming a nuisance. Please come soon? – Mx**

"Perhaps you _should_ give it a rest for today… Sherlock can cope on his own, he's a big boy."

John quickly snatched his phone off the side table, slid through the list of unread messages, but took note of the most recent one and quickly punched in a response, and quickly pocketed the little device.

**On my way. He can manage. – JW.**

"No… No, it's fine. Nothing will get done if I'm sitting around drinking tea for the rest of the day." He sighed, tipping on to his feet and ambling over towards the coat rack, where he eagerly snatched his heavy jacket. "Don't feel the need to wash up." He added; somehow hoping the aroma of stagnant tea water would overcome the waft of decaying flesh seeping through the unsealed fridge.

As he made his way to the front door, he checked his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed. _Wallet, keys, coins and phone… Check_. Although, something was obviously missing; the same item that had been 'missing' every single time he departed from the doors of 221B and embarked out onto the streets of London to aid Sherlock in a case, or every time he worked a few hours at the local clinic. That 'one' item he once could never be without; the very thing that had saved his life more times than he could count.

"John? You're doing that 'look' again?" Mrs. Hudson piped up from her spot; still elegantly seated (like a true lady, no less). "Are you _sure_ you don't want to give this one a miss?"

_Oh, if only you knew just how much I'd love to take you up on that offer._

"I'm fine…" He murmured, his attention trailing to the direction of his room.

_Don't do it John, you don't need it._

"Absolutely fine…" Slipping his jacket over his shoulders, he wandered towards the corridor; in the interim his head and his heart were having their own personal battles within.

_Really, you __**don't**__ need it. Taking that with you would be like taking the murder weapon to the crime scene. If Sherlock even caught sight of it…_

_If this is a case of magic, the murderer might still be lingering around. If you have to defend yourself, wouldn't you rather have a wand at your side?_

_You're in muggle territory now! You have a Browning at your disposal. USE THAT!_

_You know very well that a gun can only do so much damage to a wizard who can cast a shield, who can stop time, or perhaps… Can petrify you before you even have a chance to blink._

_But it's a risk! I'm not a wizard anymore, I'm not, I gave that all up. I gave it up…._

_Until the day magic stops running through your veins, John Watson, you will forever remain an irregular piece of a puzzle that is society; one that doesn't belong. You don't have to use it, and absolute worst case Sherlock sees, you can just use the Obliviate spell._

_No. No. No. I won't go meddling with the mind of the world's only consulting detective. No!_

_Oh for f- Fine. FINE! I'll take the wand!_

"Well you don't look fine!" She hollered from the living room as she watched John disappear into his own living quarters and the door lightly closed behind him, but it appeared as though time for tea was over. "I'll be downstairs if you need me!" She called again, but received no response. Thoroughly used to being politely ignored, especially by Sherlock, a light 'oh' escaped her lips as she stood lightly from the comforts of her chair, gave a very light visual inspection of the sheer state of the flat (note to self: dusting to be done), and made an unobtrusive exit out of the flat; with only a light thudding of footsteps being a signal to John that she had finally left.

John however, wasn't focusing on that right now. On the contrary, he had somehow justified his brain that he _needed_ his wand. He had retrieved the little wooden stem from the depths of his cupboard and now held the mystical little trinket in his hands. To describe the feeling of holding it again, after _all_ these years was simply indescribable. It was as if he had returned an unused limb to his body, one that had been severed for so long… The feeling of magic synapsing from his fingertips to the perfectly crafted woodwork was in every sense of the word; _magical_. If he had sat on the edge of his bedside any longer with wand in hand, he feared he would start to tear up. Worse still, he feared he would never make it out of his flat.

_Oh go on, just a little test._

_Just to see if you've still got it._

_Something easy…_

Clutching the end of the wand with the utmost care, a brief smile cracked across his face as he uttered the word "Oh… What the hell; _Lumos_!" The exchange between hands, to wand to tip was instant; a stream of light erupted from the tip and filled the room with radiance that no artificial light could easily compete with and effortlessly continued to glow brighter, and brighter and _brighter_. It was fair to say that John could have easily been mistaken for a little kid opening his first Christmas present, or a first year casting their first 'proper' spell. It was brilliant. The _feeling_ was brilliant; and the ecstasy of the moment felt as though it could have lasted forever. At least, until, a more depressing thought came to mind.

_Wait._

_He wouldn't have bugged my room… No, he wouldn't have._

_Would he?_

John wanted to curse himself (not literally) for being so careless amongst all the excitement of practically casting his 'first' spell, and despite it being highly likely that Sherlock would have bothered to take the effort to install bugs into John's private dwellings, he couldn't discount the possibility. Thankfully, he was somewhat aware of a spell that could render surveillance useless (although to what degree, he couldn't recall), but that was something he would have to research on a later date. "Out! Out!" At first the wand chose not to comply, and shone a little brighter with each command. Fortunately though, it eventually gave in and began to dim until the light puffed out of existence, leaving the wand appearing as nothing more than a wooden stick. "Right, time to go…" His heart still raced a tad from the thrill of wielding magic for the first time in a long time, but he woefully had to put his turbulent mixture of joy and worry aside as the thought of Sherlock giving poor Molly grief (with John as the cause) came to mind.

He naturally lodged the wand down the side of his jeans, thankful that the cooler winter months had called for thicker denim (useful considering it shrouded the slight raise in fabric that the wand would cause), and made haste towards the exit.

_I bloody hope I'm making the right decision._

And with that, he was gone and the flat became blissfully empty._  
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	3. Morbid Moments at the Morgue

**Author's Note: Hey folks! Many thanks for the reviews, follows and favorites! Please keep them coming! (Works wonders for my ego xD).**

**In the words of our favorite detective… The game is **_**on**_**! Poor ex-auror John has spent the better half of his life trying to put his wizard days behind him, but it appears as though that part of his life is unwillingly trying to force it's way back in! **

**So with a rogue wizard or witch on the loose, that leaves so many questions up in the air! Will there be other murders? Will the Ministry of Magic get involved? Will Sherlock find out John's secret?**

**So there's chapter three done and dusted! Also, I tend to write other crossovers and I'm always looking for suggestions (I love doing the STRANGEST crossovers) I'm thinking of writing a Tinkerbelle x Sherlock one! But if you want me to bring an idea of yours to life, I'd love to give it a shot!**

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**So please review if you get the chance! Thanks guys! :D:D:D:D From your friendly neighborhood Aussie! Also, I'm going to the USA in 14 days. I CAN'T WAIT! And… I'll be quite now xD)**

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"John! Thank _heavens_ you're here! He's been nonstop complaining… And my workload has shot up since my lab assistant came down with the flu a few days ago, and-"

Molly was clearly in a fluster; not only did the poor woman have mountains of paperwork to complete, but she now had an adult-sized toddler causing bedlam in her workspace. Granted, under normal circumstances she generally admired the view whilst pining for Sherlock in the comforts of her workplace, but a whining, six-foot plus brat wasn't on her preferred list of cards, for today anyway.

"Molly, deep breath." He reached out to offer a friendly pat on the shoulder, and was pleased to see the Pathologist start to loosen up.

"Sorry… Sorry, I'm just a little stressed." She sighed, absent-mindedly trailing her fingers through her ponytail. "He's just being _so_…" Her fists momentarily clenched, but before the assertive part of Molly had a chance to break through, timid and mousey Molly took over. "Oh, you know. You live with him. You surely don't need me to explain."

"Quite right." John glanced over Molly's shoulder, and grimaced as a result. It was fair to say that Sherlock looked frustrated, but the self-titled high functioning sociopath looked rather… Perplexed? He was hunched over a microscope, clearly trying to pick-apart the contents squashed beneath a glass slide but seemingly making no headway. Occasionally he would glance up, scribble down something on a notepad adjacent to his wrist, and dive back down into each eyepiece. Rinse, lather, and repeat.

"Do you know what's gotten him so rattled?" He snapped his attention back to Molly. "I mean, I know it's about the case, but he's still bothered about the cause of death being inconclusive? It's only been a week!" John scoffed, although made a mental note to adjust his 'inside voice' when he copped a 'look' from Sherlock's way. "That's not to say you're incapable of doing your job, but it's not uncommon for these things to take weeks to solve."

"Well…" Moly shifted back into her previous discomforting demeanor upon mention of the corpse. "He's a _little_ justified in being a bit bothered…"

"Sherlock's justified in being a bit bothered over inconclusive results? So he can't figure it out for once; let's not add more fuel to his already burning over-inflated ego."

"No, it's not just that. I mean, I understand what you're saying." Molly began subtly shuffling, clearly a tad perturbed. "I _do_, but even I'm a little… Well, baffled. You've seen the corpse, haven't you?"

John nodded. "Saw it when Lestrade called it in. From memory, there wasn't a great deal to go on; no murder weapon, no discernable cause of death, no witnesses and no CCTV footage to go by." He shrugged. When it came to pretending as though he had absolutely _no_ idea about what was 'really' going in, he was a master of his craft. He'd managed to keep off Sherlock's radar for the entire week (although possibly a lucky fluke; considering that Sherlock's own mind palace had laid claim to _other_ distractions for the time being), and play absolute 'dumb' when it came to straight-up lying about the true facts of the case. Not to mention, the anniversary of his friends' passing could also be used as a genuine scapegoat if Sherlock did happen to pick up on any of John's behavior that might be considered a little 'off'. Scapegoat or not, however, his annual grieving process was still heavily emotionally taxing on the ex-auror.

_At least I don't have to fake the grieving process… _

"Yes… That's all true. But you haven't examined the corpse, not like I have." She began to softly trail towards the stainless-steel table; waving John to come over, which he gladly obliged. Her tiny hands found their way to the rim of the plastic white sheet, and slowly, she began to peel it back to reveal the voluptuous shell of a woman, likely in her mid-thirties and setting aside the post-mortem bruising that concentrated around the Y-shaped incision inferior to her sternum, she was as white as a sheet. And likewise to when John had seen her last, her face was still contorted in a horrific silent shriek; her eyes still bulging in true terror and her fists balled dangerously into rock-hard fists. The most curious aspect of her demise however, was the locked positions of her limbs. This woman had _literally_ hit the ground running.

_All the telltale signs of a Petrificus Totallus curse._

"It's terrible…" Molly murmured, her arms folding awkwardly across her chest. "The only thing I've been able to determine is that whatever killed her, it was quick; but whatever it was, she saw it coming and must have been _terrified_, if her body is any indication of that."

_The Wizard or Witch involved would have likely been a death-eater; must have threatened her, displayed a feat of magic to convince her of the true threat she faced, and then she would have tried to run in vain…_

"After I ruled out death by a projectile weapon, or possibly being injected by a foreign substance the first thing I suspected was a possible heart attack, but upon anatomical or physiological inspection it came back inconclusive. In _fact_, there's no evidence that the heart just 'suddenly' stopped before everything else. It's almost as if _everything_ stopped at once."

_On someone with magic, this would have merely rendered them paralyzed temporarily._

_On a muggle… This would have completely overcome them; their entire life force stripped from their body._

John grimaced at the thought. "Her medical history? Surely a woman of her size could have been at high risk for cardiovascular disease, high cholesterol, even diabetes?"

_Her death may have been fast; but she would have suffered._

_A lot._

Molly shook her head. "Surprisingly, no. And I found no evidence of a blockage, or a blood clot, nothing resembling an embolism…" She strummed her fingers along the side of her left arm. "But John, haven't you noticed the strangest thing?"

_Stranger than a muggle being killed by a magical curse? Of course not._

"Wasn't all 'that', strange enough?"

"John…" She gestured to the corpse before her. "When she initially came in, forensics were unable to accurately decide on a time of death, so to say how long she's been dead… Well, we're not sure. A few days at most, but it's hard to say." She peeled back part of the sheet to reveal a little more of the torso. "Now, even post-mortem and stored correctly in a morgue, to observe a little discoloration or a bit of mottling due to degradation of the blood vessels is totally normal, if not _expected_." She dipped back the sheet a little further, merely to highlight her point. "Even on her extremities, her skin _hasn't_ changed complexion; and I'm confident in saying that I haven't observed the slightest bit of decomposition since she arrived at St. Barts."

_Well, she's not wrong there._

"Molly…" John scoffed. "From a doctor to another; that's _impossible_. And it's by no account disregarding your professional opinion but-"

"But what?" She frowned. "It's not a theory, it's a factual observation. Adding to that, please do _try_ to explain her level of rigor mortis despite having any indication of decay, because I'm at a loss." She clutched the plastic sheet and pulled it back up over the corpse, and spun around to face John. "So, any ideas?"

_Oh, I've got a few._

"No…" He shook his head, blinking a few times; simply to add effect to his clueless façade. "Not one…"

"Well, if you come up with anything, let me know." The docile pathologist peeked down at her watch, and gave a heavy sigh of contempt. "I'm sorry, but I'm already behind in the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back in my office. If you need me, you know where to find me. But if you get any ideas about this case, please let _me_ know as well."

"Will do." He smiled, and watched as Molly skittered past Sherlock, almost tripping over a stool as she passed him by. A few words mumbled that sounded like 'sorry, so sorry' could be heard before she disappeared red-faced into her office and shut the door behind her. John however, became painfully aware that there was but another soul in the room who now demanded his attention, and an unhappy one at that.

_That leaves just me, and you._

"You've been updated then?" A potentially peeved baritone filled the room, but Sherlock was still apparently encased in whatever-it-was that he was looking at; his eyes still glued to the microscope as John began to wander towards him.

"Hm? Oh, yes." He nodded, stopping so to stand a comfortable distance away from Sherlock, but close enough to see what he was doing. "Molly's filled me in; more questions than answers apparently…" He sighed. "Don't suppose your powers of 'deduction' have pulled any clues?"

"_Science_, John. It's a science." Sherlock didn't hesitate to correct his partner as he twisted the side-knobs on the microscope. "Perhaps not to her cause of death, but to the circumstances leading up to that… Yes, a few."

_A few?_

_Surely not pertaining to the magical nature of the crime._

_At least… I hope not._

"Oh?" John edged a little closer. "So you've got a running theory then?"

A contemptuous sigh escaped Sherlock's lips as he finally accepted temporary defeat from his blood-slide, and slowly corrected his posture until he sat perfectly upright, and shifted on his stool to face John. What bothered John though, was that despite Sherlock being totally and utterly frustrated with every aspect of the case, the detective was _still_ staring at John with those highly intelligent, calculating eyes; likely deducting him to pieces with every opportunity. Right now, at the present; John was potentially being stripped to pieces; every aspect of his being probably being thrown under the metaphorical microscope of Sherlock's mind palace.

"Woman was in her mid-thirties, extremely overweight and was a local to the area, but rarely left her flat. Likely had a strong aversion to exercise and was possibly agoraphobic, given her frequent and regular online purchases of staple items from the local store; only a five minute walk at best. She led a mostly sedentary life, never needing a reason to leave this hovel she called a flat." He began. "Given the undisturbed later of dust pertaining to the window, the curtains in her flat were barely opened; a strong indication she kept to herself, which of course correlated with the description given by the neighbors. So, a woman with highly antisocial tendencies and one who never leaving the flat yet was the victim of a rather unusual break-and-enter. The break-and-enter though, not _quite_ a break and enter."

"Oh?" John frowned. "But I thought Lestrade concluded that-"

"As again you look, but you do not _observe_." Sherlock sighed. "Upon entering the crime scene, I took note that while the door handle _inside_ the flat appeared as though it had been constantly touched; likely due to someone with possible OCD tendencies constantly confirming that the door remained locked, the handle on the outside appeared polished and clean; barely used."

"So?" John huffed, although he assumed Sherlock's train of thought was wild, running and wouldn't slow down until it had reached 'conclusion' station.

"_So_, John; the door wasn't locked when we arrived, an indication that at some point she _left_ the flat; not consistent with her usual behavior, and was followed and subsequently let the person in, where she met her ill-fated demise. I did recover a single set of fingerprints on the external door-handle, very recent which therefore supports my theory that she went out, came back and came back with one extra. And of course, mild disturbances in the dust layer in the corridor were-"

"I get it, I get it." John exhaled. "So… You think that the killer may have been familiar to her then?" _Unlikely._

"John, as usual you're missing the bigger picture…" The detective suddenly leapt up off his stool in a sudden display of energy, and began to parade over towards the corpse. "_Why_ would she have suddenly decided to leave her flat, only to come back with a killer in tow, and be killed among the most peculiar of circumstances? Why today?"

"I don't know… If she had agoraphobia, perhaps she wanted to try and overcome it? It's not uncommon for suffers of that condition to try and break through it on their own terms?"

"A naïve assumption, but wrong. More likely that she was meeting someone, and it was urgent enough to break all tradition and leave the comforts of her flat." Sherlock suddenly dove his hand into the depths of a pocket in his trusty Belstaff, only to retrieve an iPhone with a Doctor Who casing on the back. After whirling his finger over the screen for a few moments, he eventually found what he was after and faced the item at John, revealing a rather peculiar text message the victim had received a little over a week ago. In fact, it was a few days before they had found her corpse.

**To: Anna-Lise Sobragio**

**From: - Unknown Number -**

**Message: Anna. That video you sent me, holy hell. We need to meet and make this public. I will call you to arrange time and place.**

John's heart wrenched up a little in his chest cavity. _Proof?_

No… No, it couldn't be that.

"You think whoever this was… This is our killer?"

The detective whisked the phone's screen back to his face and continued to flip through the messages, before finally pocketing the little device once more. "Possibly. Whatever this 'proof' is, it's clearly important enough for an agoraphobic woman to temporarily conquer her illness so she can try and make it _public_." He emphasized the last 'c' and tipped back the sheet of the corpse to have another lookover, simply to satisfy his ingrained frustrations.

_Video proof._

_That means there's video evidence._

… _Of magic._

"And… The video?" John furrowed his brow and his demeanor became slightly unnerved, almost mirroring how Molly was standing earlier on. "I suppose if you had access to it, you'd have bragged about it by now."

"Don't be silly John." Sherlock flipped the sheet back over the corpse, and wandered back over to the desk to retrieve his notebook. "Of course we have access to it. Seeing as how our victim was highly proficient in IT and Network-programming, it wasn't a surprise when her laptop appeared highly encrypted. As capable as I am in decrypting the facts, unfortunately Mycroft has the resources and means to gain access to the 'video' in question."

_Shit._

"And after I dropped the words 'risk' and 'national security', he was 'generous' to make it a priority; his words, not mine." Sherlock pocketed his notebook, and changed course as he headed towards the exit, but stopped short of pushing open the door. "John?" He stopped, turning around to face John who had also stopped in his tracks.

"While I'll overlook the fact that you've clearly been in the process of grieving due to the anniversary of, what I can only assume is the death of fellow soldiers you fought with in Afghanistan, could you explain why you clearly became uncomfortable when you read the text message on the victim's phone?" Sherlock remained deadly still, but his eyes were nevertheless just as cold and calculating as he watched John obviously tense on the spot.

"I…" John struggled for words. So much for carrying out a confident façade and pulling the wool over Sherlock's eyes, John needed _something_ and he needed it now. "Of course I'm uncomfortable; we have a woman who's dead of a totally inexplicable cause!"

"As a Doctor, you've encountered far worse than this. Being puzzled isn't enough to disturb you; besides, your brain is more equipped to ask the questions, not to solve them." After getting a glare from John, the detective rolled his eyes. "Don't be like that, the expanse of your brain is widely untapped; barely used. But as I've said before John, you're not isolated to that fact." He sighed, and brought himself back to his train of thought. "You also became evidently anxious when I mentioned we'd have eventual access to the video in question, which leads me to believe you may not have a clue as to _what_ is on the video, but you're worried about others _seeing_ the contents of that video." He edged a little closer. "I won't even get started on how you were feigning surprise when Molly began to explain her bafflement over the nature of the corpse and the circumstances pertaining to her death. Needless to say, I've taken your grieving process into account, however based on my deductions it's clear that you've been avoidant of this case since you first laid eyes on the crime scene."

John wasn't quite sure how long he had stood there with his mouth agape, but he wasn't quite sure _how_ to react. Never before had his previous life somehow managed to spill over into his muggle one, but the fact of the matter was; it _was_ happening, and Sherlock was edging closer and closer like a bloodhound hooked onto a scent. He felt a pallor overcome his face as he struggled to find the words for a decent rebuttal, but he fell short at every opportunity to defend himself.

_What do I say?_

_What the hell do I say?_

_I can't obliverate him! Not on a mind like that, I don't even know if it would work on him!_

"I'm _grieving_." It was all he could manage to say, his fists clenching up. "Of course I'm going to act a little 'off'. It bothers me, alright?"

"I don't discredit that; in the years I've known you, your grief comes without question and like clockwork. Your 'off' behavior however, does not correlate with your _usual_ grieving process, which leads me to believe you know something about the case that you're not telling me." He edge forward a little closer; his tall stature slightly looming over John, but from a comfortable distance. "I don't believe you're directly involved however, but I would… Appreciate you to be more forthcoming." He said, his smooth baritone shifting lightly from seriousness to concern.

_Trust me mate, if I could tell you… I wouldn't. _

_This is for your benefit, not mine._

"Look." John sighed. "I. Don't. Know. Anything." He slipped past Sherlock and pressed his weight against the door, as it swung open. "Badger me all you want, you're going to get the same answer, alright?" He snapped, and held the door open for his flat mate. "You coming?"

Sherlock remained static for a moment, but nodded smoothly and glided past John, but paused once more as he passed him. "While this isn't a threat, one way or another you _know _I'll find out." That wasn't a question, it was a statement, and John knew that statement was seething with truth. John however, refused to satisfy Sherlock's statement with a response, and waved for Sherlock to walk through while he held the door open. "You coming, or not? I might duck by Speedy's, I'm _starving_."

A curious glimmer passed through Sherlock's eyes, but he simply nodded and exited the morgue and strolled beside John. "I don't eat on a case."

"You drink water, don't you?"

The tall detective shot John a final look of subtle suspicion, but nodded.

"Thank _god_ for that. Sherlock 'is' human after all…" John huffed. While he was pleased that Sherlock had dropped his accusations for now, it was clear that he wasn't about to just 'let it go'. No… Not at all; considering that John had now become another piece of the puzzle that made up this rather impossible case.

_And Sherlock is totally right._

_He will find out._

_It's only a matter of time._


	4. Stress-Time at Speedy's

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the fav's and follows, it honestly means a lot to know that people are getting some enjoyment out of my brain-farts a.k.a. overactive imagination.**

**Not much to say here really, except please follow, favorite and review if you can!**

**OT: Just saw Guardians of the Galaxy – GREAT FILM! Loved it xD, or should I say… "I am Groot!" I'm hooked on a feeling and high on believing! :D**

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"So, you haven't said much."

It was almost comical really, seeing the pair of them sitting there like an old married couple; one of them poking furiously at his food with a spork and the other sitting there in total and utter silence. One could easily mistake this for a divorce waiting to happen but to John and Sherlock, it was an average lunch between two grown men… With only one of them fulfilling his biological need to eat, as usual.

In response to John's nitpick, the consulting detective who was slightly hunched over the table with both hands steepled under his chin, his gaze not set on John but rather down at his phone; his face totally blank.

"Mm, yes." He said with a slight baritone drawl. "Your point?"

"Well normally after this much silence I can only assume you're preparing to show-off with your deductive reasoning?" John twiddled his fork on his linguine, his eyes scanning over Sherlock. It didn't take a detective to figure out that he was incredibly deep in thought, his mind was probably trailing over the most recent events and his most recent concerns – one of which being the enigma that John Watson was slowly becoming. _And I don't want to be an enigma. I want to be John._

"I'm waiting." A long, pale finger reached forward and lightly nudged Sherlock's iPhone across the table.

_Of course he is. He's teetering on the precipice of the world's greatest discovery, and he doesn't even know it yet._

"Dare I ask, what for?"

Cold and calculating eyes crept up at his shorter counterpart, his facial expressions static. "Your total and utter lack of an ability to feign surprise is staggering. You know _exactly_ what I'm waiting for and I'm mildly positive you already know the contents behind the message given by our mysterious author prior to the moment of our victim's untimely death." As if it were possible, Sherlock looked even more intellectually menacing than he had been before, and naturally John edged back an inch or so in his seat.

"Oh, come _on_! This again?" John scoffed. "I told you, I don't know a bloody thing about whatever it is that you're trying to-"

"No."

"No?" John lightly shoved aside his plate, his face contorted in concern. "What the hell do you mean, no?"

"I _mean_, no." Sherlock removed his fingers from underneath his chin, his horridly critical gaze still withstanding. "I've lived with you long enough to carefully record and catalogue both your standard facial expressions and typical mannerisms, not forgetting subtle micro-expressions of course. When you lie – no matter what the nature of the lie might be you _always_ display an obvious physical sign of stress or discomfort; inability to keep still as you've _clearly_ demonstrated from the fourteen minor adjustments you've made in your chair since you've sat down. And of course the way you've spread your linguine across the plate with 83% of the meal still remaining." Sherlock's posture straightened, his demeanor becoming that extra bit intimidating. "Need I continue?"

"Uh – No!" An incredulous and marveled grin masked John's deep and undeniable fear of being discovered, his heart rate bordering on the cusp of tachycardia. " So I've been a bit stressed lately, and now I'm being accused of-"

"I'll take that as a yes." He quipped, his tone raising an octave or two. "Right now, you've obvious signs of vasodilation coincide with my accusations towards you. You're shuffling again, and have swallowed out of anxiety at least three…" He watched John carefully, and nodded. "Four times, and every second chance you get you've been eyeing the phone. You're worried – you're _dreading_ what's behind that encryption but likewise you know _exactly_ what it is." He gently tilted back, but he was like a predator locked onto prey, and he was _not_ letting go. "I'm not entirely convinced that you would have played a part in this murder, but I'm disappointed, John Watson, that you could not entrust your knowledge in my care."

Was it possible that even for a moment, Sherlock Holmes possibly looked a little _hurt_? Well, if it was – it was only for a fleeting moment. And truthfully, it was enough to make guilt bubble up inside of John.

"I'm also disappointed, that you apparently doubt my abilities as an investigator but more importantly – as your friend." He extended a hand out, only to slide the phone back closer towards himself. "If you are in danger, I can help." His voice suddenly went quite, but his tone remained all the same. "If this is beyond my means, I've got Lestrade and dare I say – Mycroft, at your disposal."

_Ironically, they're the ones I want to avoid. If only you knew…_

"For god's sakes, I don't doubt-"

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Thin fingers darted for the phone and in seconds steel grey hues were scanning over the screen. It was enough to carry concern for John, considering that Sherlock's face was absolutely frozen in a single expression. Very briefly, his eyes narrowed and a quiet 'hm' escaped his lips, but he remained locked in a trance-like state, his mind likely buzzing at whatever the contents of the message may be.

"So?" John wasn't going to beat around the bush any longer. He figured if he were to cover this up, he'd have to stay on the same page as his friend. "Go on then, I'd 'love' to hear what I _already_ know." He scoffed with a hint of sarcasm.

Unfortunately sarcasm was met with silence and it was as if a double standoff was taking place at the table. John was glaring at Sherlock, and Sherlock was glaring at his phone. He even edged in closer to have a look, and trailed his thumb across the screen as he swiped further down to read, and tapped it once with his thumb. After what felt like minutes of careful analysis and deliberation he gently placed the phone down and slid it towards John, his face still and his eyes following the phone.

"Mycroft?"

"Hm." Sherlock retorted, his hands returning to their trademark pose as they steepled comfortably underneath his chin. He chose to say nothing more on the matter, but merely edged the phone forward another inch or so, is to say 'go on, _have a look_'.

John's heart was pounding incredibly fast, he was fairly certain a very small layer of perspiration had developed above his brow. He almost _didn't _want to look, but the stakes were too high to remain so painfully ignorant. He _had_ to.

As eyes trailed down towards the smartphone, he reached forward and picked up the device; a slight tremble had developed in his hands. He didn't bother looking up at Sherlock – he _knew_ he was being watched, studied and examined like an amoebae under a microscope as he examined the smartphone, but at this point he didn't care. The contents of this message were important; enough to silence the fantastic and brilliant Sherlock Holmes, and John had _no_ _choice_ but to investigate.

**From: MYCROFT HOLMES**

**Message: Files have been encrypted as requested, however I strongly advise you to place your curiosities elsewhere. I can't prevent you from looking, Brother Mine, but severe consequences may result. Heed my warning. Stay out of this. – MH**

"Keep scrolling." A deep baritone sounded from the other side of the table, yet it wasn't enough to distract John from the severity of the situation that lay before him. His mind was still reeling from Mycroft's text. _Did he know? _It was more than possible that Mycroft would have had some knowledge of the magical folk, albeit even if it were extremely limited; he _was _the British government after all. But the question remained; how much 'did' he know? Did that mean he knew about John and his past? It made sense, given the rather livid welcome he received on day one, and Mycroft _had_ made a rather lasting impression when he'd demonstrated his knowledge of John's military past. Chances are, that was likely one big metaphor for 'I know you had an active ministry role as an auror, but let's just sugarcoat this with a muggle twist'.

With bated breath and Sherlock's gaze digging into him like a blade, his finger eventually swiped further down the screen. He wasn't quite sure as to what he'd find, but if it preceded with a dire warning from Mycroft and managed to silence 'Brother His', John could only assume it was fairly astronomically significant to the case. Or better still, it may possibly bring Sherlock just one step closer to the mystery of magic.

_Oh._

"Judging from your rather apparent display of shock I can only assume that-"

_Enough! _"Shut-it Sherlock!" He took one moment to glare at his friend, who – oddly enough, appeared _surprised_ that John had been tense enough to lash out. But rather than relish in the moment of putting Sherlock in his place, his gaze fell back onto the glaring screen before him. His face had gone from a flushed red to a ghostly pallor, his heart was about to erupt out his chest and if his hands were anymore tense he was sure the phone would break. But did he expect the contents of the message to be this confronting? _Not in the slightest_. There, right below the text was a small video, roughly about one minute in length. He could only assume the video was mute, considering that Sherlock hadn't made any further adjustments after he pressed play.

_Might as well. I'm pushed into a corner now, and I don't see a way out of this._

The first frame of the video was black to begin with, which didn't seem to offer any further comfort. He tapped the screen lightly and allowed the little video to spring into motion, his eyes studying every frame with great care and the utmost scrutiny as he watched the events on the screen unfold.

For the first few seconds it appeared to be dark, but that quickly changed when someone appeared to flip on a switch, revealing a long corridor of sorts with closed doors separated by a few meters in-between; possibly belonging to an industrial location or perhaps an abandoned building considering the paint peeling off the wall and the obvious damp seeping through the plasterboard. The camera work was a little shaky at first, but as the operator travelled down the corridor at a quickened pace it soon became apparent that they were sprinting. Now and then they would turn behind them, turn to a door and try the lock; of course ensuring that every action was filmed. It wasn't until they finally reached the end of the extensive corridor that they tried both doors, both being locked shut.

_That building, it looks familiar…_

_Why does it look familiar?_

The mysterious camera operator was apparently trapped, and slowly turned behind them to view the lengthy corridor from the opposite end; but this time, something was different. _This time_, there was the darkened silhouette of a man standing at the very end. Well, a man donning a cape or some sort of a heavy coat. _A robe to be precise_. It was almost reminiscent of _The Shining_ by Stephen King, but with a far greater unnerving vibe attached. At first the figure remained stationary, but in a swift motion they retrieved something from their pocket. _A wand_.

The figure then began to barge with heavy steps towards the camera, his wand raising and becoming poised at the ready. He was preparing for the offensive, but what was _really_ going on here? As he edged closer and closer and with his wand held high, he carried it down and brought it back up with a seemingly beautiful grace that could only be akin to a conductor allowing his baton to guide the harmonics in a symphony. At this point it was now clear the hood of his robe was shadowing his face; making a proper identification futile. But at this point that wasn't what struck out - and with twenty seconds left whatever was about to happen was going to be the defining proof pertaining to this video. It was going to unravel John at his core, and he so desperately struggled to maintain his composure as he watched on.

_There_. A flash of roaring green energy erupted from the tip of his wand and grew into a deadly projectile as it flew towards the camera, but a rigid movement suggested that they had enough sense to dodge the offense. _10 seconds_. His heart was pounding, beads of sweat were now prominent on his forehead; and Sherlock was likely lavishing in all the physical hints that John knew _exactly_ what was going on here; the irony being however, while John 'knew' the nature of this video, his guess on the situation being played out here was as good as Sherlock's – he had _not a _clue. All he could ascertain was that somebody was under attack, likely a mug-

_No_.

In the small snippet of the video that remained, the owner of the camera had apparently dug into their own pockets, and pulled out a weapon of their own. _A wand? _In the remaining five seconds, it was enough to perform a maneuver of their own and send a curse in retaliation; all the while they held the phone up to document the battle. And then it went dark.

_No._

_No… That doesn't make sense.  
_

_A muggle may be stupid enough to document something like this, but a … No. Anyone magical wouldn't do this – Not even a squib._

His brow furrowed and a labored breath escaped his lips, and he slowly cranked his head at his flat-mate. Not a word was said between them, but in those 60 seconds that John had been absolutely invested in the contents of the video, Sherlock had apparently managed to gaze ever more intensely at his friend. But the most curious thing was, he didn't look pleased with himself. If anything he looked _concerned_, but not like before. He didn't look ticked off or insulted, he genuinely had a tinge of worry in his eye for his friend, which meant one thing and one thing only. _I must look absolutely horrid. _

"My offer of protection is still withstanding." Sherlock began, a newfound caution present in his tone. "And while I'm not entirely sure what I've just witnessed…" He dropped a decibel or two as _he_ slid further towards the edge of his chair. "I've yet to properly analyze and authenticate the video although given the nature of Mycroft's message it's highly probable the credibility of this video is trustworthy. And if a woman _died_ for the contents of this message one can only assume-"

_This is wrong._

_This… No. A wizard would NOT be this careless._

"Sherlock…" He swallowed a quick breath, his voice becoming rasped.

"That we could potentially be teetering on the edge of a secret society of sorts, a conspiracy _right here_, in the heart of London – likely the world." He leaned forward a little closer. "It was clear he was brandishing a weapon of sorts, but what? And what was that light? Some sort of an electromagnetic pulse perhaps?"

"Sherlock."

"I know, I know. Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable _must_ be true." The detective was on a tangent. On one hand however, he was seriously concerned for his friend. On the other, he was just wavering over the edge of an incredible discovery; and he _knew _for a fact that John _and_ now Mycroft had some sort of knowledge in the matter.

"And it's clear _you_ know something. That's a fact." He beamed. "But now I know _Mycroft_ knows something – of course he would! Which can only mean one thing… This is far bigger than I had anticipated. This stretches beyond the Government, and-"

"SHERLOCK!" Fists slammed on the table, causing the plate to audibly clatter as the cutlery became temporarily airborne. He was fed up; frustrated, in fact, that he was losing control of the situation _very_ quickly. This wasn't even about him anymore, it was spanning far deeper than he could have ever realized and it bothered him to no end that this _was_ turning out to be a conspiracy of sorts – one that he had _no_ clue about. Everyone in the Café' sat upright and an air of stillness evolved from every single conversation in the room simultaneously hushing, but it wasn't long until normalcy was resumed when the waitress resumed order-taking at the table across. The one who _did_ remain ever so still, was Sherlock Holmes.

He sat there, quietly. He didn't appear to be in total and utter shock, but he certainly wasn't talking… Just, staring.

"Stop it. Just… B-Bloody stop it." He stammered, both fists still resting on the table. "I-" He turned his eyes back to the screen, didn't talk and pressed play again – replaying the video to perhaps get a better scope of the problem at hand. At first, nothing stood out. He watched the same old battle and the same old retaliation; nothing appeared new and was not forthcoming with any hints or clues as to _what_ was going on.

"John…"

As attempt number five began to draw to a close, he was just about to call it quits. But that was when he saw _it_. Right there, nearly plain as day. How could he not see it before? It was subtle, perhaps half a second and slightly blurred on the frame but 56 seconds in, it was _enough_. As the 'victim' had brandished his or her own wand, there was a tiny engraving seen towards the middle of the wand. Right there, at 56 seconds were the tiny letters 'A and F' carved into the oak.

_Initials_.

"John, if you've-"

"The flat. _Now_." He said coldly, a subtle tremble still evident in his voice. "We have to talk."


	5. Fallout from the Truth in the Flat

**Author's Note: Hope you liked this chapter! Got a bit heated between the pair (No John!Lockers, not like **_**that**_**) but I think it turned out how I wanted it to.**

**Please review, follow and favorite if you liked what you read! Plus, gives me more motivation to throw in another chapter! :D**

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The tension in the flat was thick enough to be sliced with a butter knife as either of the pair sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, eyeing each other with a cautionary stare. To an outsider however, the whole 'stand-off' was quite comical; Sherlock having sat there in his trademark pose, leaning forwards slightly with elbows rested comfortably on the table and fingers steepled beneath his chin, clearly doing a visual dissection of his flat-mate as he sat there in silence.

And then there was _John_; who still appeared to be absolutely horrid as he sported a paled face and his mouth contorted in something between a frown and a grimace. In contrast to Sherlock, his back was pressed against the uncomfortable wood of the chair and his hands lay lightly on the tabletop. Occasionally he'd look at his friend, but then he'd look down at the phone on the table, and then out the window.

_Just as long as it means I don't have to look at him._

"So…" A deep baritone _finally_ broke the silence, likewise creating even more tension (if that were even humanly possible).

"So."

"John, I'll begin by repeating myself from a prior conversation, but if you are in danger…" There was a momentarily pause as John _finally_ returned his stare back to Sherlock. "My offer of protection still stands. If you have made mistakes, you have my word that I will listen to your side of the story."

The last statement copped a slight reaction from the auror, his posture correcting itself as he shuffled forward an inch or so in his chair. The signs of distress were there, but who could blame him? He was a moment away from breaking the Statute of Secrecy – the very doctrine that he'd always lived by, and had been trained to uphold. Right now, he felt ashamed.

He felt like a god-awful hypocrite.

"You requested we talk, and you wouldn't appear so worried if you didn't have a reason to be this way." The volume in his voice dropped an octave or two, his eyes digging further into his friend. "I'm yet to even try and rationalize with what I saw on that recording, but the protection of your wellbeing is of sheer importance…" He teetered a little closer, his stare only becoming more intense. "And of course, given the fact that you, the phone and the murders all appear connected." He watched on as John visibly gulped and intertwined his fingers around each other.

"And while I've said before, I _don't_ believe you're the culprit." He momentarily lowered his gaze as he glanced at the victim's phone lying smack bang in the middle of the table. "But I would appreciate verbal confirmation."

Silence continued to reign on between the pair, but for John it wasn't so simple.

_If I tell him, I break the law. But he's seen the video, so I don't really have a choice. I could very easily obliviate him, and I've done that so many times to others. Why can't I just do it to Sherlock? _

_Oh! That's right – I respect the man._

_He's my friend…_

_One doesn't obliviate a friend._

_Not Sherlock._

"You done?" John folded his arms abruptly across his chest, and his outlook of worry had shifted slightly to that of displeasure. Of course, this sudden snap got raised eyebrows from the detective, giving John a gentle reminder that he had probably come across as being a bit brash. Unfurling his arms, he raised them up in a display of disturbance. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about being cryptic, I'm sorry this all doesn't make sense."

"So help me by _explaining_ – Help it make some sense!"

"If it were that easy, do you _think_ we'd be having this discussion?!" His hands came down hard on the table, causing a few beakers to audibly shake. "If I could have told you before, do you think I'd keep up the lies, the secrecy?"

Sherlock remained ever so still, until he removed his fingers from underneath his chin but remained seated in a securely upright position.

"Do you **think** I _enjoy_ lying to you? To Molly, Lestrade, hell, even Mrs. Hudson?" He snapped. "No. I don't. I don't enjoy it, but let's face it – I've got nobody to blame but myself. I _chose_ this life! I knew the risks! I knew exactly what I was getting myself into and I chose to be this foolish; I mean, living with a _consulting_ detective? What the hell was I thinking?" The sudden rising volume that matched his frustration had started to simmer down to a humored chuckle while he shook his head side to side. "I couldn't have been this stupid."

"We've already established the fact that you're an idiot." Sherlock quipped, but copped an incredibly sour look from John. "Oh, relax. We've established this; I meant in comparison to me." John responded with yet another bitter stare. "A bit not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

_He's going to find out you stupid git.  
YOU called him here. _

_You. Not him. You._

"Look, mate… This isn't easy for me. It's not meant to be, if it were… I suppose I would have already done it. I suppose that's why it's meant to remain a secret." The auror slowly pushed his chair out from under the table and began to pace, his fingers furiously ruffling through his hair. All the while, Sherlock's eyes never missed a step. "I'm not the greatest at explanations, not this type anyway."

It was apparent that John's dramatics were getting no further sympathies from Sherlock, causing him to give a huff. "So _explain_; everything, including the video. But your involvement in all this, I'd like to know that." He sighed. "Actually, I'd like to know _everything_, which I'm sure you can appreciate."

"Oh, I wouldn't expect any less." He murmured, resting his shoulder against the kitchen counter.

"So… Your explanation?"

_He never ceases to let me forget_. "Ah." After his little outburst, he was starting to feel as though his aggravation was subsiding, but in truth it didn't make this any easier. He was about to give up his deepest secrets, and would soon be looked at in a much different light. Would Sherlock even _want_ him around after the reveal? It was very likely, but John didn't want to stay if he was going to be constantly viewed at as nothing more than an experiment. _I'll just be another filing cabinet in that 'mind palace' of his…_

"Right. Well." He suddenly dug his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the base of his wand. _Past the point of no return now I suppose_. He wasted no more time as he slid the wooden staff out from the fabric and lightly placed it on the table. He had to admit; setting bias aside it was a beautifully crafted wand, and had seen many a battle throughout the years. Yes, it had remained a little dormant since John's lifestyle shift, but no matter where John went it was always close by – even if that meant being locked up in a closet.

"There." He gestured to the wooden trinket. "That's it."

A slender hand reached out to snatch the wand, and Sherlock was inspecting it with an intense level of scrutiny. He turned, tilted and even tapped it on the side of the table, as if to get some sort of effect. It wasn't until a few minutes of careful inspection that he finally gave up, and pointed the wand at John. "It bears strong similarity those shown in the video – a connection I'm sure you're about to clarify." His eyes wandered from the wand to John, but it was clear; Sherlock was indeed, perplexed. When he worked out his deductions it wasn't uncommon for him to look like he was deep in thought, or even confused; but this time, he almost looked _lost_.

"Well, that's the point." He scooped up the wand and held it firmly in his hand – the undeniable connection returning in an instant. _This just feels so… Natural_. He initially thought it'd be wise to start the lecture off with a demonstration, but figured it'd be better offering a bit more of a backstory before he proceeded with a magic show. "But before I begin, _whatever_ I tell you doesn't leave this flat. Understood?"

"John, I never thought you actually took me for an idiot." Sherlock drawled, almost seeming to be bored. "I offered to protect you, and you assume I'd throw you in the firing line?"

"Point taken, but still important." _I suppose that sets aside one worry of mine. _

"Alright. Okay… The truth. The complicated, unaltered truth." By now, his heart rate was extending into the range of tachycardia and he was fairly sure he could feel the beginning of palpitations. _It's likely a common side effect of magical folk preparing to expose their magical nature to a muggle, no treatment available at present._

"First things first – I'm not involved in the murder that's been doing our head in. Let's get that out of the way." He sighed, running a hand once again through his hair. "I'm not a killer, and I've never gone out of my way to murder someone, _but _-." John paused, the wand in his hand poised upwards. "I _am_ connected to it. The murder, I mean."

The verbal confirmation snatched Sherlock's attention, and the chair slid out from under the table a fraction. "How?"

"I didn't know the victim personally, but I know exactly how she died." This further received a response from the detective, who had now resorted to standing beside the table. "I know she's likely innocent, I know she likely died running for her life and I know for a fact she was killed in cold blood." _Ironically, without the blood. _"And I know now, based on the video, that there could be more deaths out there and more undocumented murders unaccounted for."

"More?" Sherlock resounded, now leaning against the kitchen counter, opposite from John. He appeared deep in thought for a moment, but broke his trance with a nod. "Likely. If our victim was killed with an encrypted video file in their possession, we can assume that the killers will go to extensive means to keep it suppressed from others… And while I'm still not sure as to _what_ actually happened on that video –"

"I'll get to that." John lowered his wand after realizing he still had it poised high, and brought it down to his thigh, tapping it lightly. "You see, there's this society of people in London. Well, not just London… Worldwide." He began, his fingers tightening their grip on the wand. "And these people are a little different from you-"

"But not _you_."

"Right." He nodded. "And this _society_ keeps secret for a reason. So you've got a society living in secret, and for what purpose? To _stay_ secret; they live by certain rules and laws are put in place to ensure those rules are kept. One of the most important rules being – "

"Secrecy." Sherlock was keeping a careful watchful eye over his partner, but the more John spoke the more cautious Sherlock appeared to be. He had demanded the truth from John, and now he was finally getting his wish; he was just starting to second-guess whether or not he would _like_ hearing it. And given the events that had happened in the video, his eyes were starting to trail towards the wand. Or, as it so happened to be, a potential weapon.

"Right again, the 'Statute of Secrecy' to be precise." He trailed the wand carelessly as he spoke, prompting a few subtle flinches from Sherlock every time it aimed at him. "I mean, hell – I used to enforce that bloody thing. Seems bizarre I'm now on the other side of the fence."

"So this _secret_, it encompasses that stick you're holding; a weapon perhaps?"

_I'd never really thought of it as a weapon, but rather a tool. _"R-Right. A weapon, but it's quite versatile in the sense that-"

"A weapon, good." Sherlock appeared to have suddenly brightened considerably, his hands clapping together. "Very good! I think that's plenty to go on with from my end."

John's brow furrowed in that typical 'I don't understand' face he tended to sport. "Wh-What? It is?"

"You bear strong ties secret society located in London, but also International, that apparently all share some sort of secret – one that centers on that 'stick' of yours. A weapon, given by the way it was used in that video." He pushed off the edge of the bench and began strolling carefree into the living room, but spun around to face John. "And I can only assume this is where you tell me that this is indeed, a _wand_, you are indeed, some sort of sorcerer and that this video is evidence of a magical battle that took place somewhere in an Industrial complex or a downtrodden block of flats in downtown London." He took a few paces forward until he was roughly a meter or so away from John, but Sherlock appeared visibly _entertained_.

"Am I wrong?"

John wasn't quite sure where to begin. He was _getting_ to the whole magical aspect of the truth, but Sherlock had beaten him to it. The question was though, was he being serious? John was _certain_ he could detect a level of sarcasm in Sherlock's tone and he wasn't sure how to advance past this. If Sherlock thought John was crazy, could it be as simple as agreeing with him? No… No, the detective wouldn't buy that for an instant.

_The truth will set you free… Right?_

"Spot on, actually." He inspected Sherlock carefully, but the man's face was static – he didn't flinch, frown or widen his eyes from shock. He just _stood_ there.

"Interesting."

"What?"

A pale hand extended and lightly plucked the wand from John's possession – but he allowed it. "I believe that you believe it. I believe that you believe this is a weapon, and I believe you're completely invested in your beliefs." The subtle sign of a smirk became clear on Sherlock's lips, and he ran his fingers over the wooden instrument. "And I believe that you have an unhealthy belief in magic."

_I can't even believe I'm doing this – I can't believe I going to try and do this, what the hell is wrong with me. Someone must have slipped me too much Ogre-Weed… _

"Sherlock!" He scoffed, and ducked to the table where he clutched the phone. "The video! You **saw** the video!"

"Yes, John. I did." Sherlock waved the wand lightly in his hand, as if conducting a symphony. "I saw the end product of computer-generated imagery that even the most simple of teenagers could easily construct these days, given enough time and effort." He emphasized on the 't' at the end of his sentence.

"And there reason for the video being 'highly encrypted'?"

"The woman was agoraphobic – even the password to open her _fridge_ was likely encrypted."

"And the text? From Mycroft?" John pressed. "Go on then, explain _that_."

"Oh, that?" Sherlock tapped the wand against his thigh. "I told him to send it. I wanted to scope your reaction on the matter and see what 'truth' you'd actually tell me that pertained to the dead woman. I know you're hiding _something_, but really John? Magic?"

"But you were _convinced _there was some big cover-up! You were **convinced**!" John snapped. This was bloody ridiculous, had Sherlock played him? It was honestly starting to look that way.

"Oh – I still believe you're involved." Sherlock mused. "_Really_ John, 'magic'?" He scoffed. "I've already told you my mantra – Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true. Correct?" He smirked. "_Magic_ falls under the realm of impossible. I've already made an error prior to this in failing to trust my senses, let's not have a repeat of that, hm?"

"So, what then?!" John pocketed the phone and edged closer to Sherlock, and quickly snatched the wand out of his hand. "You think I'm mental?"

"Of course not." The detective sighed. "But John, I think you need help."

"Oh **really**?" _Am I honestly hearing this? So my 'real' secret wasn't good enough for him, and now he wants to commit me to an insane asylum? _"So setting _aside_ the clearly obvious fact that everything is obviously connected and that my explanation makes _sense_, you're not going to trust your gut-feeling on the basis that magic is involved?"

"Magic doesn't exist." Sherlock stated simply, his head shaking from side to side. "It _can't_ exist – it falls under the realm of impossible. What I'm _concerned _about, is that you believe it does!"

"And?!"

"And that you're involved somehow; you know **something** about this case and you're covering it up with either delusions or lies – possibly both. My 'gut-feeling' is pointing to that. My 'deductive reasoning' is creating connections, but my logic and everything else for that matter tells me that this 'magic' nonsense is purely that; _nonsense_." The time for humor was over, for Sherlock no longer looked amused. If anything, he looked rather ticked off. "And the very fact that you believe in such, it worries me." He leaned forward, his calm and calculating eyes boring holes in John to his very core. "Are you having a PTSD episode?"

That was it. John couldn't take this anymore – it was one thing to be accused of harboring a secret relating to a murder, but to be called crazy? There could be nothing worse, especially when it came from a trusted and respected friend. "NO!" He roared. "I'm **not** crazy. I am NOT crazy – You wanted the truth? Yeah? I'll give you the bloody truth you git!" He brought the wand up to face-height and began to furiously think of a quick and easy 'show-off' spell to summon. Or better still, a spell that would require some practicality.

_A spell that will clean up this mess of a flat._

"I really don't see how waving a stick around the room will prove-"

"_**TERGEO!**_"

A sudden visible yet harmless shockwave accompanied a sudden flash of royal blue from the tip of his wand, and for a split second both parties in the room had gone silent.

"John." Sherlock's tone had lowered considerably and he almost looked a little perturbed, his attention not leaving the little wooden staff. "Would you care to-"

"Wait." _Damn, I hate the delay on this spell. _At first, everything was as it was prior to the spell. Nothing had moved and nothing had changed… Until about twenty or so seconds after the casting when dust began to lift off the couch. And then the floor, and then the windowsills and it began to peel off the ceiling. Old ink stains that had been long ingrained into the floorboards suddenly lifted off as if they were stickers, and even small water droplets on the table began to lift. Seconds later, the air in the flat was filled with dust, water, god-knows what else and glittering blue magic that hovered around, above and between them.

Sherlock was speechless. He had already tried to grasp a fleck of magic that hovered past him, only for the speck to dart above and behind him. His face had become even paler than he was used to, but his eyes were fixed on the millions of little hovering morsels rising to the air. He couldn't even _begin_ to explain this, but there was now a new word that was coming to mind.

_Magic_.

"What did you do?" He uttered quietly, but he turned to face his friend. "What _are_ you?"

As if in an instant, every dot of dust, liquid and magic hovering in the air suddenly faded and dissipated to absolutely nothing, leaving the flat practically sparkling in a way it had probably never done since it was built. It was clean, but not 'just' clean, absolutely pristine. There was not a speck of dust or filth anywhere to be seen and even Billy the Skull appeared mildly polished.

_Well, at least some good came out of that._

"Sherlock." He sighed, lowering his wand and shoving it down his back pocket. "I've already told you."

"No… That's impossible. It's impossible, because magic… It's not; it can't be-" Sherlock appeared absolutely disturbed, as if that mind palace of his was having extreme difficulty trying to file away what he had seen. "H-How-"

_Bloody hell, I didn't know this would rile him up this badly._

"**That's enough**." A familiar authoritative voice echoed from the doorway, belonging to the familiar silhouette of Mycroft Holmes leaning against his cane. Who knows how long the man had been standing there, in fact nobody had even heard the door swing open. But for some odd reason, John wasn't the least bit worried about whether or not Mycroft had witnessed his little demonstration. Based on how calm Mycroft appeared to be as he gently closed the door behind him and effortlessly wandered into the flat, it was clear – he _knew_; perhaps not about John, but certainly about magic.

"Mycroft." John spoke with an air of caution, but Sherlock merely glanced back and forth between the two.

"I don't need to remind you that what you've done is severe." Mycroft said calmly, his eyes locked firmly on John. "And I don't need to remind you that what you've seen is highly confidential, in the extreme." His attention wavered over to Sherlock, who looked a little… Disconnected, at present. "And given the events that have occurred in the past twenty four hours, I'm to debrief you _in private_. A car is waiting outside to take us to a secure meeting place, and I trust I've your co-operation."

"You… You knew about this?" Sherlock appeared rather scorned, his glare unmistakable. "All of it?"

"We will discuss both your situations, as well as the case, in due course." Mycroft turned gently on his heel and began to approach the door, with cane in tow. "Follow me."

"You-" Sherlock began, but John promptly cut him off.

"It's better we just get this over with…" He ambled after the brother Holmes, but a hand snatched his arm and pulled him to a halt.

"You don't lie to me. When this is over and regardless of what Mycroft tells you, or me to do, you are showing me _everything_." Sherlock said, or rather, demanded. "I… I don't even know what it is that I saw, but you were trying to tell me. I know that now, just… No more lies. I want the truth. All of it."

John merely responded with a weak nod, and slipped out of his grip as he ventured out the door and down the stairs with Sherlock in tow.

_At least he doesn't think I'm bloody crazy anymore…_

_Although he might want to commit himself after all this…_


	6. Flashback: First Year - Bloody Hell

**_Author's Note: Surprise! Thought I'd add a little flashback about John, and a crucial character who is going to play a much larger part in the near future._**

**Also, I'm not entirely sure the _time-frame for the flashback is accurate, but assuming John is about 35 or so in the present, 23 years prior to that would be when he's around 12, and in his first year at Hogwarts._ Sorry if that's a few years out of whack for you sticklers, but let's just assume that it's correct - Yeah? xD**

**Also, please review, follow of favorite if you have a chance! Feeds the fodder for my over-inflated ego/muse, but it's also very lovely of you to take time to do so.**

**ENJOY!**

* * *

_23 years ago…_

* * *

"So what's your name then?"

"John!" A sandy blonde boy, short for his age and sporting somewhat of a baby face managed to mouth his name in between bites of sponge cake, a toothy grin flashing at the girl on the other side of the grand table in the dining all of Hogwarts. "John Watson! What's your name?"

The frizzy-haired brunette gave a wide grin from ear to ear. "Beatrice Harthington, muggle-born and proud! So Ravenclaw, huh? I suppose we're meant for bigger and better things!"

"Mmhm!" John had popped a lamington in his mouth and had been temporarily overcome by the cream-filled center. "I always pictured myself as a Hufflepuff – The Sorting hat said I came _really_ close to being put in that!" He sighed, his eyes still hovering over the smorgasbord of candies they had at their grasp. Apparently the Sorting Ceremony was a 'big deal' according to the older students, so it made sense that they'd spare no magical expense for the food.

"Nah, you're totally a Ravenclaw." Beatrice pouted, and poked out her tongue. "You know how I know?"

"Nope." John smirked. "How?"

"Because you're not blonde, duh." She huffed. "Everyone knows you have to be blonde to at least be _considered_ for Hufflepuff. You're more brown than blonde. Kind of both, but not enough to be Hufflely." Her hands gently adjusted her black headband and then moved down to her thin-framed glasses, which balanced, precariously on the bridge of her nose. An attractive girl she was not, but bubbly? Absolutely. John had initially started to wonder why nobody had spoken to her before at the table, but after her confession of being a muggle born he knew why. Heck, even _he_ was a muggle-born, and initially he didn't see the problem with it.

Apparently at least half of Hogwarts disagreed.

"I guess…"

"And see my hair? It's not 'dark' dark, but it's not light either. And my eyes are dark blue, not light?" Beatrice pressed on. "And we're characterized by our wit, learning and wisdom. _Plus_, our symbol is the eagle." She grinned as she babbled on. "Do you want to know what the traits of a Hufflepuff are?"

"Well sure but-"

"Dedication; Hard Work; Fair play; Patience; Kindness; Tolerance; Unafraid of Toil – and their stupid symbol is a _badger_. Who gets _anything_ done with a badger?" She laughed. "You might not be witty but you look like someone who wants to learn. I'm more witty, as you can see."

"And wise?"

"Certainly so!" She huffed. "And I think it's an _honor _to be muggle-born, if I might add. The purebloods think it's dirty but you know what? I don't care. My parents were a little surprised, sure – but they got over it." Beatrice shrugged, and popped a plum tart in her mouth. "What about you? I won't tell if you're worried, I swear."

"I don't mind." John grinned. The very fact that he had _finally_ made a friend was enough to put him in high spirits. "I'm muggle-born to. My parents weren't so… Thrilled about it."

"Oh?" The girl leaned forward a little, her ears practically pricking up. "Why?"

"Well, they were just really shocked. I think I might have levitated a mug by accident, or I did something really stupid when my sister upset me. Next thing I know, I get a letter in the post." He suddenly looked shocked. "On a _Sunday_."

"Now that _is_ spooky!" She giggled.

"But even though my parents got over it – sort of, my sister wasn't so pleased. She's older, and she was really mad she couldn't do what I could. So I guess being jealous and all made her upset. We haven't really got along since." He shrugged, obviously a little beat up about it. "You got any brothers or sisters?"

"Just one; Darvin." She gestured over her shoulder towards the Slytherin table. "He's third year – no idea why he got put in Slytherin but he's a real cow sometimes, so the hat probably chose well. He's got green eyes to, but I don't know if that made a difference."

"Oh, really? I suppose I'm happy Harriet's a muggle then." He smirked. "Could have been worse, right?"

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but gave the nod of approval. "I _guess_. No powers for him would have been better than the stupid overinflated ego he's got going on."

"So Beatrice-"

"Call me Bea' – Alright?"

"Right, sorry 'Bea'." John blushed. Why was he blushing? Likely it had something to do with the fact that this was the first proper conversation he'd had with a member of the opposite sex, but he wasn't investing too much thought into the issue. "Hey, what animal did you get?"

"A cat, of course… Would you expect anything less of me?"

"Well, I've only known you for ten minutes." He grinned. "But I guess I'd expect as much. As for _me_, I got a toad."

"A _toad_?"

"A toad." He said with a bit of triumph. "Not because I couldn't afford an owl… Well, I guess that _may_ have been a factor – But I'm not really a cat person. Snuffles the family cat attacked me once, and since then I've never been keen."

"You got attacked by a cat called _Snuffles_?"

"Oi! It was an aggressive little thing!" John laughed; his wandering hand still looking for more sweets to grab. "And I vowed to never go near another stupid cat again."

"Well!" Beatrice gasped. "No friend of mine is going to be cat-shy. I suppose you'll have to get used to them!"

"F-Friend?" John hadn't quite expected that. _Do I honestly have a friend now? _He had never really been the type – and not because he'd avoided other people, but simply because they always avoided him. At Muggle School, kids had always accused him of being too short, too weird, too chubby (even though he hardly wasn't), or too shy. They always found a way to segregate him from their tasks, and since Harriet found out what he was – she hadn't exactly been much of help. She helped the bullies who hurt him, and emotionally that hurt John. So to hear a _girl_ openly offer to be his friend was utterly surreal.

"Don't be stupid, of course you're my friend." She beamed. "And you're the first person who hasn't called me a dirty mud-blood, so I _think_ we'll get along just fine."

"A mudblood?"

"Don't be daft, it's what _we_ are."

"Oh." That made sense. He was muggle-born, so he figured he would hear the derogatory terminology eventually. And truth be told, it wasn't _that bad_. He'd heard worse at the Muggle School when it came to gingers.

"Yeah, 'oh'." Beatrice gave another eye roll, but made sure to adjust her glasses. "You really _don't_ have a clue about most of this, don't you?"

"Pretty much – As soon as I got the letter, it was all up to me to work it out from there." John frowned. "And I got some _real_ strange looks at Kings Cross. You ever tried taking a toad to a train station? It's not normal."

"For them!" She corrected. "Not normal for _them_ – but we are so much cooler, right?" Bea' suddenly rose to her feet, and held her arm triumphantly in the air – catching a few odd stares and glares from some of the surrounding students. "Everyone listen up! I've got a few words to say!"

"Beatrice, what are you-"

_And_ she was off!

_"For we have magic and weird pets_  
_And our veins are full of mud!_  
_If purebloods get in our way_  
_We'll prove we're not a dud!_

_We'll prove that we deserve to be_  
_a part of Ravenclaw_  
_So shut-up purebloods, let us speak_  
_and listen to us roar!_

_We'll cast a spell to bring you hell_  
_We're not a second class_  
_You mess with us, and I confess_  
_We'll put you on your a-"_

"**Enough!**" A testy professor McGonagall boomed from the front panel, her aged hands clapping once to silence the room, despite a few jeers and insults being flung towards the overly ambitious first-year Beatrice. There were however, a few claps and whistles emanating from the crowd – likely a bunch of dispersed mud-bloods sitting amongst the bunch.

"While I appreciate a good poem and for a good cause, the Sorting Ceremony isn't the best place to do it, do I make myself clear _Beatrice Harthington_?" The elder witch watched on disapprovingly, however Dumbledore appeared sedate as he sat beside the standing witch.

A few of the other students still gave an odd chuckle here and there, but a sheepish Beatrice nodded and blushed accordingly. "Sorry Professor McGonagall, it won't happen again."

"And see to it, that it doesn't." The older lady resumed her seat, and festivities carried on as normal. John however, was incredibly stunned by Bea's sudden outburst, and incredibly impressed. _She's clearly passionate about what she believes in – I wouldn't have had the guts to do what she did._

"You are…. Nuts!" John scoffed, watching Beatrice sit back down. "Why the hell would you do that? Won't you get bullied to bits now?"

"Yeah, and?" She raised a finger to tilt her glasses carefully back to a stable position. "So what if they know? I've only been here a day and I've already seen how mean the purebloods, even half bloods can be. If _somebody _is going to stand up for us and tell them that's _not_ okay, it's going to be me!" Beatrice grinned. "I'm going to prove to everyone that we have just as much of a right to be here as they do, and that it's not shameful to be part-muggle. If anything, we should be _proud_ we have a foot in both worlds!"

"Never really thought of that way." John tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. This girl was incredible – and was far greater than John felt he could ever be. She was already willing to shatter her reputation for the sake of standing up for what she believed in, and she was only 11 or 12? Right now, John didn't know any better, but this girl was going to bring out the best of him – and likewise for her.

"'Course you didn't, and now you do." She huffed. "Besides, we're Ravenclaw. What are we? We're characterized by wit, learning and wisdom. I'm witty, you're wise and learning's just something we have to do. A good recipe for friends, yeah?"

"Yeah." He beamed. "So what are you gonna' call that cause of yours?"

Bea' tilted her head slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you care that much for something - you've gotta' have a name for it! You've even got a theme song!" He grinned. "It could be something like…" He paused, humming as he sifted through his minute list of ideas. "Muggle Warriors', or…" His eyes lit up. "Muddy Blooders!"

"_Muddy Blooders_?" She laughed. "You're daft. Can't you think of something better?"

"Well… How _about_…" _Think of an idea, anything! _"The Mud-Blooded Banshees?"

Beatrice hummed and arred' for a few moments, her head tilting this way and that. "Sounds a bit… Dumb."

"Oh? Well… What _about _'The Mud-Blooded Bandits?"

"_Better_…" She hummed, but wasn't quite so convinced. "Anything else?"

_Man, she's hard to please! _"Bloody Hell… Um-"

Suddenly, she lit up like a Christmas tree. "Say that again!"

"Say what?"

"What you just said!" She grinned. "I liked it! What was it?"

John narrowed his eyes. "What? Bloody Hell?"

"That's IT!" She squealed, almost hopping up out of her chair. "I love, love, _love_ it! Bloody Hell it is! Bloody because we're mud bloods, and hell because that's what we'll raise if anyone gets in our way!"

"Isn't it a bit… I don't know, _aggressive_?" John flinched. "We're fighting against bullies, not fighting a war."

"When you think of a _super_ better one, we'll go with that. For now, we're 'Bloody Hell', I _like_ it! It might sound a little mean, but it might be the deterrent we need to keep those bullies away."

"I suppose…"

"Yay! That settles it!" Beatrice had a grin stretching from ear to ear, and she tucked a stray frizzled strand behind her ear. "You and me, the first members of the Bloody Hell Mudbloods – and it's only our first day! Awesome! And plus – you're my first real, proper friend! This day is so awesome!"

He couldn't help but laugh; her enthusiasm was adorable. She might be a little energetic and over the top, but she certainly had good intentions in mind. _And_, she was the first person he'd met who actually made him feel less like a drifter between two words, and more like a boy who had a right to have his feet in both.  
"Friends for life, yeah?"

"Duh – I thought that part was obvious…" Beatrice giggled, and raised a glass of water. "Here's to Bloody Hell!"

John raised his own, and as they clinked glasses (while getting a few disapproving stares from both fellow students and staff) he huffed his chest out proudly and shouted at the top of his lungs.

_**"BLOODY HELL!"**_


End file.
